The Faded River
The dream begins not with a waking but with a drowning, a slow and silt-heavy submersion in water that tastes of iron and old pennies, and you are standing in the middle of a hall that is not a hall but a throat, a narrow, stone-walled corridor where the air is so thick with the scent of damp wool and beeswax that it coats the back of your tongue like a paste, and you are holding something,...
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